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by Helga Harris (Sarasota, FL) Perhaps due to my age, I was the only member of my family of four who had not been upset about unexpectedly leaving Berlin in April 1938. My parents kept their plans to emigrate a …
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The Jewish Writing Project by Bruce Black - 3w ago
by Steven Sher (Jerusalem, Israel) for Nini, on his third birthday Our grandson dons a tallit katan for the first time and we ride the bus to see the Rebbes in Geula. “Sweet boy. Such a sweet boy.” Each blesses …
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The Jewish Writing Project by Bruce Black - 1M ago
by Ellen Norman Stern (Willow Grove, PA) I will never forget Thursday, May 26, 1938, the day my mother, our beloved Scottish Terrier named Peeps, and I stood on the pier of the North German Lloyd shipping company in Bremerhaven, …
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by Jane Ellen Glasser (Lighthouse Pt., FL)         for my daughter on her 16th wedding anniversary I would never have thought sixteen years a sweet anniversary, a rejuvenation of love. That was the year your father and I divorced.       …
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by Dobra Levitt (Jerusalem, Israel)        I love my Talmud Torah class.  It meets one morning a week in a shul in the heart of Jerusalem.  And just as no other place in the world has a heart like the …
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by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY) A sampling of haikus: Attending service, After so many years away. Would I feel welcome? Memory wall: Little lights bright as buttons Who will pray for me? Eyes closed in prayer. My voice feels very …
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by Saraya Ziv (a village near Jerusalem, Israel) The son of my lawyer, Dina, is getting married tonight and she has just about obligated me by contract to show my face for the ceremony. The wedding is across the street …
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by Jacqueline Jules (Arlington, VA) Cook fires, clothing scraps, animal dung have long disappeared from the desert. But the story remains: how the Israelites fled Pharaoh under a spiral of swirling white clouds as angels swept stones and snakes from …
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by Aslan Cohen (Chicago, IL) I never knew there was a real connection between laughter and death. To me, death was the solemnity of the shiva: covered mirrors, torn shirts, itchy beards. When I first visited my grandfather’s grave, I silently …
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by Carol Westreich Solomon (Montgomery Village, MD) Past Pennsylvania farms, harvest-bare, I drive to the cemetery Where my uncle waits for my aunt Beneath a half-empty headstone. Next to me, Aunt Dellie rambles About Yiddish class Until crackling gravel announces our …
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